


hope this feeling lasts

by la_victorienne



Category: Alice (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Hatter likes to celebrate the little things.





	

Pizza is always a celebration.

Every time anything even remotely exciting happens – the Hattery's business is good, her classes go well, Carol sends them a few extra dollars "just because" – he orders pizza.

She's not sure if it's because pizza was the first thing out of his mouth when she invited him to her world, or because he likes giving funny names to the person on the other end of the phone, or because every night is an adventure of what topping combination he'll decide he wants to try next. Possibly it's a combination of all three, which seems the most likely, given his penchant for things of a mix-n-match nature. Patterns. Colors. Day-of-the-week underwear.

Tonight he's ordered bacon and pineapple, which is better than she expected it to be, and the celebration has been long in the coming – it's been a tough winter, to say the least, and it's clear that he misses Wonderland at least some of the time, even if he says he's perfectly happy. But right now, at this moment, candles lit around the pizza box and cheap red wine settling warm and comfortable in her belly, with his arm around her shoulders and music on, it feels like Wonderland has just crept into her world, and she likes it that way.

"Hatter," she says, and it comes out like a little girl's question.

He's sleepy, she can tell, because his response comes out as an "mmm," into her hair, lazy and slow, his mouth on her head.

"Nothing."

But it's not nothing, and he knows it. She's almost sure he knows what the nothing is, what it stands for, what she's afraid of. He just "mmm's" into her hair again and strokes a long line from her shoulder to her elbow and back. "You're right," he says, after a moment. "We should bring Charlie to visit us."

And yes, that is what she wanted without even knowing it, but more than that, something in the way he says "us" just puts her heart at unexplained ease. It happens whenever he does it, whenever he says "we" or "our" or "let's" – the growing feeling that perhaps, somewhere, there is a place where Wonderland and reality live together every day, and that perhaps that place is where they are. She puts a hand on his knee, surveying the room around them, the life they've made, somewhere between dream and waking. His hat rack is in the corner, alive with all of his favorites, the straw pork-pie hat at the very top. She has a picture of her parents on the mantel. Teacups and fresh flowers are everywhere, and there are always, always, cookies in the tin. And it feels like home.

She takes the wine glass out of his hand and stands up. He follows, because he always will, and she knows it. And it's true – he might love pizza, but when the possibility of lots of other things arises, he's the first in line to leave the pizza to go cold on the coffee table, because making up fake names isn't half so rewarding as this.

This, at least, never gets old.

In the bedroom, he unzips the back of her dress slowly, inch by inch, eyes fixed on each new patch of pale white skin. She can see him in the mirror – just a mirror, she has to remind herself – and her mouth goes dry at the look in his eyes when he meets her gaze there. She forgets how tan he is until he's pressed behind her, his hands on her hips, his mouth pressing a kiss to the skin behind her ear. His hat is askew, so she pulls it off of his head and hangs it on the bedpost, where he'll be able to reach it tomorrow. He won't need it any more tonight. When she's turned in his arms, she starts on his tie, and unbuttons each of his gaudy shirt's buttons with the same reverence he showed her. There is something she can't place about this night, this moment, something that is far more Wonderland than reality, something she'd like to hold onto forever.

He kisses her and it's sweet, like the wine. She kisses back and tries to tell him how happy she is, how it feels like nothing can go wrong. How she feels like she's living in a fairy tale. She tries to tell him with her hands and her tongue that everything is right, here and now. She thinks he might know already, if the way his hands are skimming up her sides are any indication. He turns her, backs her to the bed, shucks shoes and socks off of both of them before laying her out, covering her body with the length of his. She is warm beneath him and his mouth is on her neck and his fingers are twined with hers on either side, and she feels something she never felt with Jack, or anyone, before.

Safe, she thinks. She feels safe.

"Say yes," he whispers.

"Yes," she says, and she's not sure what she's saying yes to, except that it doesn't matter, because with him she's saying yes to everything – to adventure, to risk, to total and utter bliss. His knee nudges her legs apart, and she's saying yes to this too, to being complete, to being whole, to being one with him. She's saying yes to pizza for celebrations, to always being broke, to taking weekend trips to Wonderland, to fighting like cats and hares and making up in the shower. She's saying yes to him because he is, because he exists, and he is hers.

For a moment he stops, positioned at her entrance, and she cups his jaw in her hand. "What is it?"

He meets her eyes, and it's the same look from before, like he's drowning in how much he wants her. But it's not just that – it's that, and something that looks, if she believed it, like fear.

And then he says it.

"I love you, Alice."

And for the first time, it doesn't feel too fast.

She pulls his mouth to hers, kisses as hard as she can, all the while pulling him into her. It feels like the first time, moving with him, breathing in unison, tasting something she's sure even her father couldn't make into tea, something she knows, as he sends her, thrashing, over the edge, could never be bottled.

Because you can't bottle love.

And you can't keep it in.

So she whispers it in his ear as he's dozing, whuf-whuf-whuffling into her hair, the words she's never said to anyone but her parents and Dinah. "Love you, too." He's half asleep, but she can see his smile as she settles beside him.

They'll probably order pizza again tomorrow.


End file.
